


Moxie

by Jaxopil



Category: Hogan's Heroes
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Drama, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, no real plot just angst, nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 09:20:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17342693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaxopil/pseuds/Jaxopil
Summary: Newkirk has trouble adjusting to the aftermath when trouble falls on the team. Anger was a feeling he was used to, helplessness not so much.





	Moxie

**Author's Note:**

> This is more of a character study of Newkirk oneshot than any actual plot. Nothing severely graphic, but there is implied references to torture and lots of angst. Comments are welcome.

Hogan and Wilson were talking several feet away, their tones rushed yet quiet as they repeatedly glanced over, both expressions dark and unreadable. An under current of spite at being left out of the conversation smoldered under his own surface, especially when said conversation referenced the whole reason for the current knot in his stomach...

But Newkirk couldn't tear his eyes away from the deathly still form laying in front of him.

Lebeau was a few feet away from his left side, his gaze averted from the pile of bloody and torn clothes and rags Wilson had yet to discard as he mumbled in French. Newkirk was too preoccupied and mentally drained to say anything to him at the moment, let alone be annoyed like usual that he couldn't bother speaking English.

“Andrew looks like he's been through some kinda Hell,” Newkirk commented, shifting the used rags into a bin before picking up a fresh damp one, and started to wipe away at the dirt and blood that was still on Carter's face with a rarely seen gentleness. “Can barely even tell it's him.”

“Makes me wish we could've grabbed them,” Kinch said. His voice was tight as he wrapped the bandage around the makeshift splint on Carter's left arm, which, according to Wilson, had been violently twisted until it snapped. It would have to do until they got actual supplies in the next drop to cast it. “Shame we couldn't get our hands on them when we got there.”

Since Wilson had been in such a rush to fix the goddamn _list_ that was wrong with Carter to save his life and had had his hands full for the past several hours, it fell to the rest of them to take care of everything else and clean up after he had repaired most of the damage. Massive blood loss and system-wide shut downs were life threatening and needed immediate attention, a clean face and splinted bones did not.

And it gave Wilson a much needed break, before he would no doubt be needed against soon- Carter would need around the clock care while he recovered.

“I'll drink to that. Ruddy cowards, the lot of 'em. Torture a man almost to death and then just leave him to die. No one deserves that, least of all Carter,” Newkirk said as the scene from when they first found Carter replayed in his head again. Shaking his head to clear it, he watched as the Sergeant maneuvered the broken limb to make sure it was set straight (which no doubt had to be painful), and back down at his best friend. _I hope those bastards get what they have coming for 'em after what they did to him._ “He ain't even flinched since we brought him here. And he-”

A sudden sound of a raspy inhale immediately brought the attention of all three towards Carter. Hogan and Wilson noticed as well, their heads turning sharply towards the sound as all five warily watched, _praying._ Newkirk didn't dare move until he heard the much quieter shaky exhale, letting out his own breath he had been holding while waiting for Carter to breathe.

“Well the important thing is is that Carter is back here with us and alive,” Lebeau said, scooting over more towards the bed now that Newkirk had cleaned most of the blood away. Luckily the rest of Carter's body was hidden away by a thick blanket, otherwise the Frenchman would've been on the floor. “He's safe and far away from the _boche_ that did this to him.”

 _Yeah, but everybody's got friends in the German army_ , Newkirk thought, before pushing that thought out. It would be over his dead body, _all_ of them (because he knew the rest of them would without a thought put their lives on the line as well), that they even got near Carter.

Wringing out the freshly dipped rag, Newkirk began cleaning a cut by his ear. “Underground said he didn't talk,” he whispered. If he wasn't so horrified after seeing what they had done to him, he would've been proud.

A few various snippets of Hogan and Wilson's conversation were just loud enough to catch his ear as Newkirk made out various words, frowning at what he heard. _Blood loss, potential complications, internal damage_ , all twisted at his heart as he forced himself to keep calm and continue cleaning Carter's face. While he didn't know the full context of the conversation, he could make out enough to understand how grave the situation was-

Newkirk cursed quietly under his breath when, in his anger, he accidentally rubbed the rag too hard over a recently scabbed over cut on Carter's face, which promptly opened up and started to bleed. Lebeau and Kinch both jerked their heads up, making him avert his gaze down as he lightly put pressure on the small wound.

“ _Faites attention!_ ” Lebeau admonished, pausing in his job of assisting Kinch in wrapping the bandage around his arm to make sure Carter was okay. “You could have hurt Andre!”

Kinch eyed him warily, reaching for the rag in Newkirk's hands to take over.“You sure you're okay? You should get some rest, it's been a long few days.”

If anyone knew how long they dragged on, it was Newkirk himself; after all, he knew down almost to the second how long Carter had been missing. _Two days, eighteen hours and twenty-five minutes since he left to go on that ruddy mission._

“I'm fine, honest,” Newkirk protested as he pulled the rag away from Kinch before he could grab it. He glanced up to see if the Colonel noticed, and breathed an internal sigh of relief to see he was still in deep conversation with Wilson. The last thing he needed was Colonel Hogan to get involved. “I can sleep later when this whole thing's over, right now my mate needs me.”

Kinch gave him a hard stare, as if he was about to override him and order Newkirk to go to bed, but the Sergeant shook his head and finished tying off the last bandage before moving down to splint his two broken fingers.

His body was protesting the lack of sleep over the past several days, and his mind wasn't fairing much better, but Newkirk was too wound up and full of adrenaline to even think about rest. They just found Carter tonight, and did anyone really think they would be getting any sleep right now when they still weren't out of the woods quite yet?

Pulling the rag away, Newkirk leaned back to get a good look at Carter's face. With the blood and grime cleared away, he could now see the bruises and cuts that littered his pale skin, with a few that were deep and most likely needed stitches to properly heal. Several more would surely scar.

_Bastards. The whole lot of 'em. I hope they rot in Hell._

His anger started to flare up higher when he thought about the damn Krauts who did this to Carter, and when he looked over to the Colonel and Wilson, still whispering and keeping everything to themselves, his temper was on fire. He was _angry._ Angry that he let Carter go on that bloody mission by himself in the first place, angry that he was sitting here on his arse unable to do anything except wait.

Angry that he didn't even _know_ what was going to happen to Carter, that he could be dying for all he knew, and no one was telling him any news.

Jumping up from his seat, the chair fell behind with a clatter, startling everyone in the room. “So what's gonna happen to him?” Newkirk shouted. The room turned silent except for the breathy inhales coming from the bed, all eyes on him. “If you care to let the rest of us here in the dark know what's happening, that'd be splendid.”

Shifting to fully face the rest of his men, Hogan's brow furrowed before taking a few steps closer to them. Newkirk braced himself, ready for the Colonel to lay into him or be court marshaled; he wanted something he could actually fight back at, something he had control over. Because even deeper than the anger was the fear. He was _scared,_ terrified his best friend's life, their operation, and himself could fall into pieces right in front of his eyes.

“Peter, just sit down,” Kinch warned, gesturing with his eyes to the fallen chair while Lebeau whispered something in his ear. “We can all talk about it later when things settle down.”

Instead Newkirk held his ground, giving the Colonel a defiant stare. Wilson took the abandoned chair and began to check Carter over, his own discussion with Hogan obviously over.

Both kept their eyes locked. But as the tense silence started to eat at him, Newkirk felt his own hostility cool off. Dimly he considered the possibility that Hogan was keeping quiet on purpose to diffuse his anger; that thought should have made him even more angry, but Newkirk was now too shaken and anxious to really care at this point.

“Is Carter...?”

Hogan's gaze shifted between each of his men, pausing with a harrowing shadow as it fell on Carter, before finally resting on Newkirk. “Wilson's worried about shock and infection.” His voice was steady, but even the Colonel couldn't disguise the strain in his words. “A lot of his wounds are a few days old and he thinks it's already settling in and causing his system to begin shutting down. His body's just too weak to keep up.”

“But the penicillin'll take care of infection, won't it? And Bryant and Childers just gave blood, so that should help too.” _It had to, right?_

Newkirk didn't miss the grimace that passed over the Colonel's face, which caused his stomach to drop. “I didn't want to tell you before I knew for sure,” Hogan finally said. “Wilson said our supplies will be out by morning. And London isn't sure they can make the drop tomorrow night.”

The familiar anger returned again within a second. “Well when _can_ they?”

The silence that followed spoke more than any words Hogan could have said.

Newkirk breathed hard with gritted teeth, glancing back down at his unconscious friend. “Then I'll go out to the hospital in Hammelburg my damn self and-”

“You'll stay here, and that's an order!” Hogan yelled, uncrossing his arms and placing them on his hips in an authoritative stance as he moved to block the tunnel entrance.

“But I-”

“I said no!” he repeated, before lowering his voice. Schultz was just a few feet away outside and would no doubt come poking in. “Look Peter, right now Hammelburg is going to be crawling with Krauts for the next several days, and probably Gestapo too. I was barely able to get Carter into camp while looking half dead and convince Klink, and we still might not be of the woods yet with that. I can't explain you turning up missing or getting caught. It's too dangerous, you're staying here, no argument.”

_So that's it then? We're just leaving Andrew to suffer and hope he doesn't get worse until London gets off their arse and can make the drop?_

Shaking his head in frustrated disbelief, Newkirk dug into his jacket pocket for his cigarettes and, once he found one, lit it with a trembling hand. “Oh, bloody fucking hell,” he muttered. The first inhale calmed his nerves by a bit and cleared his head, but it still didn't completely quash his stormy thoughts.

Hogan gave Newkirk one last hard stare, before motioning towards the remainder of his men. “Kinch, he's had a long few days. Walk Newkirk back to the barracks and make sure he gets some sleep.”

Newkirk scowled at Hogan as Kinch stood up and led him out of the infirmary by the arm.

Schultz was standing in front of the door where they had last seen him, oblivious to the tense air that surrounded them. “How is Carter doing, the poor boy?”

“He's hanging in there,” Kinch said, not stopping as he acknowledged the Sergeant. Schultz looked slightly hurt at being brushed off, but Newkirk had more important things to worry about.

Whirling around once they rounded the corner of Barracks Four, Newkirk yanked his arm out of Kinch's grasp. “You don't get it Kinch. You weren't there when we found Carter. But I was,” he hissed. The American remained unfazed, looking down at him despite Newkirk's attempt at making himself appear tall. “I thought Andrew was _dead!_ And to have to pretend to be one of _them_ like I was going to... to torture him some more and then _laugh_ about it with them like it was a gas!”

Newkirk took several breaths, his head spinning. “Then the Colonel tells us he ain't even sure what's gonna happen 'cause fucking London can't make the drop and doesn't know when. Meanwhile he's suffering and we can't do a damn thing about it!”

Placing a hand on his shoulder, Kinch waited several seconds for him to finish while keeping an eye out for any guards that could be walking nearby.

“And you had to be believable otherwise Andrew _would_ be dead.” Kinch was always the strength and voice of reason. “I'm not happy about the news either. You don't think _I'd_ be right there with you in breaking into Hammelburg Hospital? The Colonel too.

“I get it, I really do. But then all of us would be in line for a firing squad after being tortured ourselves. It was the hardest decision I've had to see Colonel Hogan make.”

Pressing his lips together, Newkirk swallowed to keep himself together, to not lose his resolve that he had carefully constructed for most of his life. But he couldn't stop the tears that pricked his eyes as the past several days of insomnia and stress were quickly starting to catch up.

Newkirk would never be able to forget walking into that room and seeing what he assumed was Carter's dead body; having to pretend the best friend he'd probably ever had was just another job and not an actual person would haunt his nightmares

Sliding down against the cold wall of Barracks Four, Newkirk broke down for the first time in years.

 


End file.
